


playing it straight

by earlylight



Category: IT Crowd
Genre: ...with some fun 're-interpretations' of scenes, Canon Compliant, Character Study, F/M, M/M, Pre-Slash, and Unseen Footage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 20:07:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9920399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlylight/pseuds/earlylight
Summary: In the real world, it’s just that thing that you do when you’re in a relationship, like putting the toilet seat down or starting a joint chequing account, in that progression from dating to marriage to 2.5 kids and a Labrador, then a vicious divorce once the affairs come out and ending up an old, bitter husk of your former self. It’s not a thing youlike, there’s no sense in it – it’s just eating leftovers out of someone’s mouth, and Moss has never wanted to marry, well, cereal, or a pie.Five times Moss is kissed, and one time he kisses first.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Mainly set between Seasons 1-3 of the IT Crowd.

1.

Roy is sprawled out on his bed miles and miles away across the swimmy-sliding room, gently cradling what Moss thinks is a very blurry can of beer that he occasionally uses to gesticulate towards the ceiling. He’s such a mess of limbs it’s hard to determine whether his legs are even attached in the right place. Furthermore, Moss isn’t entirely sure that he’s still wearing a shirt – he’d had a white shirt on today, apparently a ‘cool look’ that he was affecting, but he’s so pale Moss had difficulty figuring out where his shirt ended and his pasty skin began even when he was sober. Because he’s _certainly_ not sober now.

(Also, he may or may not have lost his recently lost his glasses, and nearly walked into a canal as a result – but that’s a whole other story.)

“Moss, we’re goin’ t’ die alone,” Roy moans, brandishing his beer in a wide arc. Moss squints at him, lightly drumming his fingers on his own beer. The can is still cool and damp from condensation, so each _tap tap tap_ on the metal is a little burst of freshness – he takes a sip, pinkie out – the bubbles roll across his tongue, popping against the roof of his mouth like a diver ascending from the caverns of his oesophagus.

Being drunk is difficult. If Moss had to ‘pick his poison’, as it were, he'd rather the bright rush of sugar than the swimmy-slidingness of being thoroughly inebriated. His thoughts keep dripping everywhere and making a ruddy mess of things, but he didn't dare to risk any kind of sweet treat in the mean streets of Amsterdam, regardless of how far away they’re staying from the Red Light district. He has confirmation from a very credible source (his mum) that he's perfectly special without needing any help from Special Brownies, thank you very much.  

“’S bloody hopeless, ‘s’what it is,” Roy continues, rather blubbery. “’S not fair, y’know, you go through life, jus’ doin’ your best, y’know, just bein’ your best self, bein’ _kind_ and _polite_ an’ all that bollocks, like me mum kept goin’ on about, you hold a door for a girl and she doesh – she doesn’t even give you the time o’ day.”

“It’s nine-thirty,” Moss replies. He’s not entirely sure what Roy is on about. The walls are made of that rough plaster stuff that leaves little bumps exposed, and he runs the back of his hand lightly down, following gravity’s pull on the beer.

The brush-scrape of the wall is really nice, and he loses track of time for a bit. Then suddenly Roy is on his bed, his face pressed close in a rictus of terror and beer-breath. “They’re really coming, Moss! Oh god, what do we do? Why on earth did I think this was a good idea? We have to send them back!”

Moss blinks, trying to take all of this in. “It’s nine-thirty,” he repeats, even though that's not true anymore, but mainly because he’s already forgotten what Roy had just said.

“You’re right, it’s far too late t’ send the girls packin’ up t’ go back home,” Roy mutters. “Stupid, stupid, what was I _thinking_ —”

Moss tries to reboot his swimmy brain into piecing together what’s concerning Roy and how he  should be reacting, but he can only fish out something about girls, and a fair, perhaps...“The girls go…to the fair,” he hedges.

“Yes! Yes, okay, we’ll all go to the fair, that's brilliant,” Roy says, sounding excited. “Okay, where’s that bloody tourist guide got to…”

“’Scuse me,” Moss says, edging off the bed onto the ship’s deck, tilting with the swell. He stumbles into the lavatory and relieves himself, pitching his now empty beer can into the bin under the sink. When he stumbles out, the ship still coursing ahead through the sea of renaissance Dutch architecture, Roy is standing at the door with two figures that turn out to be tall, blonde women with heavy makeup after Moss gets close enough for the blurriness to recede.

“Moss, this is Else and Floortje,” Roy says loudly, his face fixed in a too-wide grin. “Ladies, Maurice Moss, head of the IT department at Reynholm Industries – him and me, we’re the dream team.”

“‘Teams’, how you say, it is costing extra,” Left Blonde says very Dutch-ly.

“Can we get started, then?” Right Blonde says, not quite as Dutch-ly.

“Hullo,” Moss says. “Would you like a beer?”

“No, thank you, that won’t be necessary,” Roy interjects, still holding that grin. “We’re going to the fair.”

So they go to the fair. The brisk wind carving through the canals helps clear the fog in Moss’ head – for one thing, he’s relatively certain they’re no longer on a boat – but his vision is still limited to Dark Lump and Dark Lump, Blurry Edition. For lack of anything better to do on the way, and because his tongue is still loose in the wind like a dog out a car window from all the beers, he tells the Less Dutch Blonde (Else, he learns, spelt like ‘else’ but said like _ell-sih_ ) about how he lost his glasses the day before. 

“…and then you nearly fell in the canal?” Else says, laughing, as they queue at the ticket booth. “That _is_ a very funny story.”

“I know!” Roy exclaims, his voice still a bit too loud. “Isn’t that the _best_ story, Floortje?”

“We still charge for this,” Floortje replies.

“Six euros,” the man at the booth says. “We close ten-thirty.”

Roy shoves a load of crumpled notes at him and hustles them all out of the line. “You heard the man, we have a whole half hour of fun times ahead, so let’s keep it moving!”

“Not much of a fair,” Moss complains, now that he’s close enough to see… some of it. “Look at it. It’s a disgrace to fairs. All that’s here is a shoddy ferris wheel.”

“It was the only fair open past nine,” Roy replies through gritted teeth. “Come on, Floortje, I’m gonna put my balls in one of those clowns’ mouths and win you one of those giant bloody bears.”

“I’m not sure what he means to do, but it will definitely cost him extra,” Else says, as Roy leads Floortje by the hand to one of the stalls.

“Five pound for a ferris wheel!” Moss mutters. He glowers at the tall, rickety thing still swaying slightly in his vision. “Absolutely appalling.”

“’Ferris wheel’, is that what you call it?” Else asks. “In Dutch, we say _reuzenrad_.”

“Ooh, I do like the sound of that much better,” Moss says, perking right up. “Is that a nine-letter word?”

Else smiles. She has dimples that dip at the sides of her mouth. “Indeed it is. Will you ride it with me?”

“I suppose…” Moss grumbles. “Can hardly waste the five pounds once I’m here, can I.”

Else takes his hand. Hers is very soft. Over at the fair games, Moss can hear Roy yelling something indistinct at some poor, hapless teenager who had the misfortune to man the clown ball game tonight.

“You like words, Maurice Moss?” Else asks once they’re seated.

“The nine-letter ones are the best,” Moss replies, tapping at the railing. The wheel begins to spin, with a rusty groan. “I’m collecting them in preparation for my Countdown debut. I don’t know if they have it in the Netherlands, but in Britain it’s the gauntlet for the best of the best to ‘throw down’ some vicious vernacular for the fame, the glory, and a lovely teapot.”

Else laughs. “Yes, I know of that show. In the Netherlands, it was _Cijfers en Letters_. I used to watch it as a child. Instead of spelling with nine letters, there were only eight, so you could never win with _reuzenrad_.”  

“This country is all wrong,” Moss replies. He squints out into the darkness, at the fuzzy lights that blanket the city. “Eight letter words! Who’s ever heard of such a travesty.”

“There are many beautiful eight letter words in the Dutch language,” Else says. “If you’d like, I can teach you some of my favourites.”

As the wheel turns, Moss learns some very phlegm-y Dutch words that he’s quite sure he’s completely mangling, and some more about his _reuzenrad_ companion. By day, Else is a writer – she does a weekly column for a local magazine under a pseudonym, but her night work pays the bills. She’s trying to write a novel about it.

“Will I be in it?” Moss asks.

“Hmm, well, I guess you will just have to wait and see,” Else replies, stepping out of the gate the attendant holds open for her. “Do you have the time?”

“It’s a quarter past ten,” Moss says, after consulting his watch. “According to Roy, that’s fifteen minutes before closing.”

“Ah, unfortunately I have another client, so I can’t stay,” Else says. “Tell Floortje to only charge half.”

“Well, it was very nice to meet you, Ms. Else,” Moss says, holding out his hand to shake. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“You’re a sweet kid,” Else says, dimpling again. “Don’t ever change, yes?”

She leans in and presses a kiss to his mouth, his first kiss, warm and dry. In that brief time, her face takes up his entire field of vision – there are three bundles of lashes clumped together on her left eye, and the makeup on her right has smeared across the corner.

“Good luck finding your words, Maurice Moss,” she says, and walks off into the night, the click of her heels resounding against the cobble long after she disappears from sight.

Well.

Moss thinks about it and figures it doesn’t count, since technically he paid for it.

 

2.

Moss has his first _proper_ kiss sat astride Roy’s desk, a bag of crisps crinkling somewhere underneath his trousers. His psychologist – well, _former_ psychologist – presses her firm lips to his, and they perfunctorily exchange salivary fluids. Their shared passion is _red hot_. It’s absolutely flipping perfect.

“I knew it,” Dr. Mendall says, a little breathy. Moss opens his eyes and goes a bit cross-eyed, since she’s still so close.

“Knew what?” he asks, still a little discombobulated from the entire affair. Her lipstick is on his lips now, and it tastes like if chalk got mixed in with paint. He licks his lips again, just to check – yep, red chalky paint. Not the best taste. Women are an enigma, to subject themselves to such things every day for no discernible reason.

“Moss, you are pursuing performative heterosexuality to the highest degree,” she says. He squints at her, because she’s quite blurry without his glasses, but additionally because she’s not making a whit of sense. “Completely unaware of it, like you’re reading from a shopping list. Some psychologists would wait a lifetime for a case like yours.”

“I’m not following,” Moss replies, slipping his glasses back on. She smiles, taking his hand, and he hops off the desk to stand next to her.

“You’re gay,” Dr. Mendall says. “I do feel bad for deceiving you like this, Moss, but you can’t blame me, I was just _dying_ to know for sure if I was right.”

“Oh, yes!” Moss exclaims, beaming widely. “That whopping great kiss we just shared made me very gay indeed.”

“Fascinating,” she murmurs. “Absolutely fascinating. You and I are going to have a lot of fun together, Moss. Off the record, of course.”

“Exactly, because there are no _warm feelings_ for clients,” Moss says, attempting a saucy wink. He’s not quite sure if he lands it, but she looks quite charmed, so that’s a nine-pointer for Moss the Casanova (no, that one’s only eight. Perhaps ‘Moss the Romancier’ – no, that feels too French, and he can’t be a turncoat to the great nation of Britain, well, at least not for _France_. Oh, sod it – he’ll just shelve it for now).

“Good boy,” she replies. She strokes a hand across his cheek. It smells a little like that fancy lemon antibacterial soap they keep in the bathrooms on Twelve that goes for a pound fifty down at Tesco. How did Moss get so lucky, to have such a classy girlfriend?

Naturally, that’s when Roy bumbles in and makes an absolute fool of himself. Moss would feel bad about his _obvious_ oedipal complex if not for the fact that he has a paramour now, and so it is his duty to dedicate most of his considerable brain to reviewing her assets as a woman per the standard relationship rubric. It’s rather tiring, all things considered, since he runs out of known qualities rather quickly, and his imagination is rather lacking when it comes to the mysterious feminine sex. The most he’s really got to know about another woman is his mum, so he’ll just have to bridge those gaps in his knowledge of Dr. Mendall with things he’s seen her do and wear. Phew! It’s not easy, having a significant other, but never let it be said Moss does anything half-cocked.

Then, in the midst of the Ides of Irma, there’s a party.

 

3.

Moss doesn’t really know what to do with his hands.

His mother liked Quiet Hands, always telling him to stop ‘fidgeting about, like one of those clapping monkeys’, which is why it was always easier to take them to a keyboard. She got sick of the typewriter clacking quite fast, which was surprisingly longer than it took to object to his attempts at piano. It really was a relief when they got their first computer. But Jen, bless her, doesn’t know anything about computers, and there isn’t so much as a starter laptop in her room. He considers whether she’d be amenable to him watching the rest of _Beaches_ , but just as he sits up to stealthily lift the DVD off the coverlet she lets off a ripper of a snore, and Moss quickly lies back down again, stiff as a board.

It’s a funny old pickle he’s in – though admittedly, the writing was on the wall from the outset. Classic rom-com material. Himself, Roy and Jen ended up going to the thank you party after all and had the time of their _lives_. He even allowed himself a very cheeky virgin daiquiri or two, getting absolutely loose as a goose off of all of that sugar generously basted to the rim. He shared a lovely dance with Dr. Mendall, although the height difference gave him a right crick in his neck. But then Dr. Mendall went out for a smoke and Roy went to the bar to get another round, and Jen started hollering that she was going to be ill and dragged Moss off to the bathroom so he could hold back her hair in solemn Big Girls Night Out tradition, and then when they got back everyone had cleared out. And then when Moss tried to take a taxi home, Jen hopped in and yelled out her address first, which left Moss in a right state because he couldn’t just ask the driver to go to _his_ place now, it was all the way across the other side of town, it would be _ludicrous_ , and then when Jen fell asleep in his lap and didn’t get out when they got to her flat, Moss then had to go along with the whole charade, like this was exactly his destination from the get-go! He’s sure that taxi driver was having a good chuckle at their expense. Jen, for her part, was no ruddy help, and kept getting in the way while Moss was trying to open the door. He tried to say, _look, Jen, I can’t find the spare key with your big old head in the way!_ except that he couldn’t say it, because she was kissing him. And then one thing led to another, which by that of course he means Jen took off all of her clothes and got into bed for some reason while he was brushing his teeth (thirty vertical strokes, thirty horizontal, rinse and spit), beckoned him over while saying something so slurred it was practically indecipherable (he thinks there was a ‘ _big boy’_ somewhere in there) and promptly passed out mid-sentence.

So there was really nothing for it but to remove his own clothes and carefully tuck his body into the furthest corner away from Jen’s starfish arms. He’s seen this plenty of times in films, so he’s pretty sure this was the right course of action, but he’s drawing a blank on the next step. Maybe it’s meant to be sex? Moss isn’t particularly enthused at the idea, but figures he’ll give it his best go. But she’s asleep now, so he’ll probably just wait and ask her what he’s meant to do when she wakes up. Yes – that sounds satisfactory for all parties involved.

Clasping his hands together tightly to anchor them, he stares at the ceiling and wonders what Roy’s up to.

 

4.

It was very nice of Phillip from Sixth, Jen’s gay boyfriend, to invite him to a night out at the theatre, even if Roy and Jen ended up tagging along too. Moss always had an abstract idea of the Arts, as some kind of nebulous state of being that you entered when wearing a jazzy hat and a new pair of shiny shoes. What he discovers this evening is that patrons of the Arts switch between multiple hats at any given scene, and most of the shoes are of the tapping variety. It’s only in his dizziest daydreams that he could ever attain such glitz and glamour.

The play is spectacular. The heartwarming tale of love, loss and, above all, pride, really strikes a chord in him. Moss isn’t gay, but then again he supposes his idea of ‘being gay’ was in a similar vague category as ‘the Arts’, and now he is more educated on the subject – both the Arts, and homosexuality – he is perfectly comfortable describing Roy’s arse to the friendly actor who winks at him through his novelty-sized binoculars. Roy, of course, is stuck in his ways. It’s such a shame that he and Jen can’t fight their way through their prejudice to really enjoy a stunning piece of theatre. He’s really quite put out that he doesn’t get to see the second act after the whole staff toilet debacle, but now he’s on the staff roster (and really hitting it off on his first day!) he believes he can concoct a five point plan over the next few months to sow dissent amongst his cohorts, bring them over to his side, and finally oust the wretched Toilet Guy.

Moss is just finishing up for the night, waving off the last patrons with one hand while the other fumbles a broom to sweep the broken glass into the corner (for whichever poor sod on the first shift tomorrow to deal with) when Phillip tumbles through the door and plods, gaze downcast, over to the bar.

“Hullo,” says Moss. “The bar’s closed now, sorry.”

“Moss? What on earth are you doing manning the bar?” Phillip asks, scrubbing at his eyes. They’re all red with tears – evidently his date with Jen did not go well. He has a look around the bar, empty stacked chairs and all. “Have you seen Jerome?”

“No,” Moss says, picking the easier question to answer out of the two. “Did Jen find out that you’re a gay man?” At this, Phillip’s lower lip starts wobbling again, and a wave of tears makes a fresh assault on his puffy face. “Um. Oh, dear. I’ll get you a drink.” Except most of the glasses have been mysteriously broken, or he’s already washed them and put them away, and it would be a shame to get sweet Phillip’s blubber all over them. He picks up the hose that he’s pretty sure dispenses water, and beckons Phillip over. “Here, just stick your head under there, you’ll feel right as rain after you’re properly hydrated.”

The water, which actually turns out to be quite carbonated, splashes over Phillip’s streaky face as he coughs and splutters through it. Moss has never seen such a pathetic and vulnerable figure of a man since he last saw Roy cowering under the desk of one of the Upstairs employees. “Thanks, mate,” Phillip says, soda water bubbling down his chin. “I needed that.”

“You’re very welcome,” Moss replies, hanging the hose back in its rightful place.

Phillip is silent for a moment, and then – “You were right, you know.”

“Beg pardon?”

Phillip aimlessly shifts a coaster back and forth over the beer-and-soda-soaked bar top. “When I invited you out to the play, you said I was looking at you instead of Jen, you were right.” He abandons the coaster, looking straight at Moss. This seems like an Eye Contact Moment, so Moss meets him stare for stare.

“Well, I’m very glad you invited me, and also Roy and Jen,” Moss replies cheerfully, but still holding the Eye Contact. “It was a ruddy fantastic play, a real treat for my first outing to the th—”

Phillip cuts him off very suddenly by leaning over the bar, taking Moss’ cheeks in both hands and kissing him. It’s very wet (not as wet as Jen) and a bit squirmy (again, not as squirmy as Jen), but there’s a funny warmth to it. Like when his mum gives him a nip of eggnog as a special treat at Christmas, and it’s creamy and smooth on the palate even though it sits a bit heavy in his tummy later on. Phillip opens his mouth, so Moss does too, just to be polite – he _is_ the customer, after all, and Moss is nothing but a consummate professional – and then there’s _tongue_ and Moss makes a noise he’s never made before, which he could only describe as a lawnmower running over a pile of rocks.

“God, I’m sorry,” Phillip says, letting go of Moss’s face. His cheeks feel very warm where Phillip’s hands had been. “I… I think I’m gonna go away for a bit. I need to sort some things out.” He walks backwards from the bar, hands stuffed into pockets that look too small to fit them, so they’re kind of half hanging out. “Thanks for the drink, Moss, you’re one of the good ones.”

Moss blinks a few times, trying to figure out what all _that_ was about. He doesn’t reach a conclusion before Phillip makes his hasty exit, but he does notice the soda water on the bartop has started to dry and go all sticky, and he can hardly leave it in such a state.

“Didn’t even leave a tip,” he mutters, wiping it all down. “This job is rubbish. I dare say I may quit.”

 

5.

Nothing bears repeating about the events that occurred during the time when Moss and Roy were trapped in a room with a roofied Douglas Reynholm. It should be noted, for the record, that they were able to overwhelm him and tie him to the leg of his desk (like men!) before anyone got indecent. Still, their bounteous settlement winnings do wonders to keep the nightmares of his slobbery lips at bay.

 

+1

It’s a strange thing to have an epiphany in a back road next to some bins. Moss wonders if Einstein or Bill Gates ever found themselves in a similar situation.

Why he’s at this back road by these bins isn’t particularly important. He came to meet up with Roy, who was still carrying on this whole façade of being a Real Man who knows some factoids about football that didn’t come from an internet cheat sheet and having a grand old time with his new Real Men buddies. Well, admittedly they may not have all been having a grand old time, since Moss sensed a bit of tension in the air when he popped in to their prime Lads Hangout in the back of an alley, but there was also a table full of money that was just crying out to be counted and sorted, which he couldn’t even finish doing because Roy dragged him away with a breathlessly hysterical story about a Lad’s Robbery, where they ended up here. In a back road, next to some bins – still not far enough removed from what Moss _now_ knows is a very incriminating scenario.

Then there were sirens, fast approaching, he had only a split second to – _think_ – he can’t weigh the social things, which reach so far beyond the if-then-else of computing logic, that are as wild and unpredictable to him as wildfire, and what’s that flipping emergency number – _oh one-one eight nine-nine-nine, eight… three…?_

“Quick!” he hears himself say, and then he kisses Roy.

He’s never initiated one of these before, but he has to give it his best go so the police don’t nail them both. Roy doesn’t taste very good. There were probably some onions in the sandwich he had for lunch, and maybe beer, and definitely skittles. But that warmth is back, that Christmas-creamy feeling, Phillip-at-the-bar, and Moss leans into it – literally – crowding Roy up against the garage door. Then he hears the sirens fade out, and vaguely remembers that they have to go somewhere, so he finally pulls himself away.

“Okay, let’s go,” he tells Roy.

“Couldn’t we have just hidden behind those bins?” Roy asks, rather breathily.

“’Spose,” Moss replies, somewhat distracted. He feels like there’s something important happening, just out of his reach, if he could just ruddy _focus_ …

The sirens are back – _that’s right_ , they’re on the run from those criminal football hooligans. He pushes Roy back against the garage door, swallowing the word Roy never finished, diving back into the warmth like a mug of hot chocolate on a chilly day, so they can get this over with and go… somewhere…

Suddenly, with perfect clarity, he comes to a realisation.

He’s _enjoying himself_.

Kissing how you know the people on telly or in a film are the designated love interests, or sometimes they use it as a kind of social currency (blackmail, generally), or like now, as a distraction. In the real world, it’s just that thing that you do when you’re in a relationship, like putting the toilet seat down or starting a joint chequing account, in that progression from dating to marriage to 2.5 kids and a Labrador, then a vicious divorce once the affairs come out and ending up an old, bitter husk of your former self. It’s not a thing you _like_ , there’s no sense in it – it’s just eating leftovers out of someone’s mouth, and Moss has never wanted to marry, well, cereal, or a pie. It’s ridiculous, and yet Moss’ heart is hammering at his chest as though it was an occupied stall at the gent’s toilet and he’d just had some very questionable curry. He gets a foot up for leverage, to get closer, holding the sides of Roy’s face… Roy makes a noise – small, soft – and Moss replies in kind, wanting… more, wanting something, he’s not entirely sure.

After what feels like an eternity and simultaneously no time at all, the last police car screeches by, and Moss steps back, the cold air hitting his face like a slap. Roy, for his part, stays pressed against the garage, eyes wide.

“Right, let’s go,” Moss says, before his brain can catch up with his mouth and make him say something _very_ stupid before he’s had a chance to think things through.

_Later –_

“You know Helen, that beautician I’ve been seeing,” Roy asks him, as _The Empire Strikes Back_ hits that part with Luke and Yoda that tends to drag a bit. Moss makes an appropriate ‘yes’ hum in reply. Roy has been wearing gloves recently in a poor attempt to disguise his manicure, but the popcorn makes them all buttery, so he’s taken to keeping his hands hidden behind the popcorn bowl. It’s a shame, really – the turquoise blue really brings out his eyes. “So she’s got this friend,” Roy continues, “recently single, pretty broke up about it, I reckon she’d be right into you. What d’ya say?”

“No thanks, I’m gay,” Moss tells Roy. “Can you pass the popcorn over?”

“Sure, here you g—wait a second, can you repeat that first part?”

“I’m gay,” Moss repeats. “Really, I think you need your ears checked. Early onset deafness is no joke.”

Roy just looks at him, mouth gaping like a fish. “What?” Moss asks, somewhat concerned. “Do you need me to say it again? I can do it louder.” He cups his hands around his mouth, leaning towards Roy. “I – AM –”

“No, no, I heard you quite clearly the first time, just, hold on a minute,” Roy says, pausing the telly. "When on Earth did this happen?" 

"Well, I didn't know myself until somewhat recently," Moss replies. "And then, I suppose, it just never came up in conversation."

Roy drums his bright blue nails against his thighs, and Moss pops a few pieces of popcorn in his mouth while he waits. Eventually – “Well, I mean, _years_ ago, I don’t know if you even remember because I don’t even remember it all that well, there was this time we had to hide from the police, and there were some bins—”

“You mean the time of which, you said, we Do Not Speak? Except, I ‘spose, we’re speaking of it now,” Moss points out reasonably.

“It’s not… no, okay, you know what, let’s go back a few steps,” Roy says. “I know your relationship with mu—with Dr. Mendall never went anywhere, for some reason, not that I would know anything about that, ha ha, but what about that girl you met on holiday?”

“What?”

“Earlier this year, you know, after Louise dumped me, you said you met a girl…”

“Oh, no, that wasn’t a _girl_ , that was Else,” Moss says brightly. “Well, I mean, she is a girl, of course, but not in _that_ way, we’re just friends. We exchanged emails during that night we all went to the fair, and last summer we were both in Paris so we met up for lunch. I’m doing the editing for the English release of her novel.”

“That night we all went to—you’re friends with one of the prostitutes we took to the fair in Amsterdam, how am I only hearing about this _now_?”

Moss frowns. “You didn’t get Floortje’s email?”

“ _No_ ,” Ross says, incredulous in tone. “I guess we just _forgot_ to swap emails after I lost her that giant bear at clown ball.”

“Oh, that’s fine, I’ll just forward you my invitation,” Moss replies. “Technically you weren’t invited, but I did tell Else I was going to ask you to come as my plus-one, and she thought it would make for a very funny toast.” Roy is still looking very blank, so he elaborates. “Apparently the time we spent with her and her fiancée was one of the more unusual experiences in their line of work, and probably also the least inappropriate story for a wedding reception.”

“The Dutch prostitutes we hired while completely sloshed on our disastrous Amsterdam weekend are now getting married, to each other,” Roy repeats slowly. “How is that – how can they be gay, how does that even _work_ —”

“Bisexual,” Moss interjects. “I know this is confusing for you, Roy, there’s a whole alphabet soup these days, but _they’re_ bisexual, and _I’m_ gay.”

“ _No one here is gay!_ ” Roy exclaims, waving his blue-tipped nails frantically. He takes a breath, sounding not unlike a very asthmatic seal. “Okay, I’m sorry, this is a lot to take in all at once.”

“Else had the same doubts when I told her about my eight-show run on Countdown,” Moss replies, nodding sagely. “Didn’t think _tnetennba_ was a real word! I had to post her the tape I recorded of my shows so she’d believe me.”

“OOH, yes! That’s right, you were getting with loads of girls when you were doing that Countdown thing,” Roy says. “Whatsername, Ivana – you said you two were having wild, animalistic sex!”

“No, I never specified it was _sex_ , Roy. I remember, I said, and I quote, _‘if you call that wild, animalistic rutting ‘sex’’_. I really am concerned now at the state of your hearing.”

“What else could that _possibly_ mean?”

“Well, obviously we had Scrabble nights,” Moss says, caught up in memory. “Bending our sweaty bodies over that board, digging our hands into each other’s’ pouches and rooting around for those letters like pigs for truffles, it was positively filthy – who knows how many times those P’s and V’s have been handled, surely no one ever thinks to give them a wash.”

“Well, that’s a game from my childhood that’s ruined forever,” Roy says rather faintly. He then shakes his head vigorously. “No, hang on, there was that lady in the crowd at the bomb disposal last month! Ha-HAH! You _are_ a straight man!”

“Didn’t we also kiss that same day?” Moss asks.

Roy chokes a bit on a piece of popcorn, so Moss gives him a good ol’ Lad’s Back-slap. “No, you _tried_ to kiss me to distract that guard from your bloody shoplifting, and then I said ‘that’s a stupid idea’ or some bollocks because it _was_ , so we ran up that escalator instead.”

“Ah yes, that’s right,” Moss replies. “That didn’t turn out very well. I still think the kiss would’ve worked better.” He glances over at Roy’s stack of DVDs, situated under the frozen figure of Luke hoisting Yoda upon his broad shoulders. “Should have gotten a better season of Grand Designs too – all three of those season five DVDs turned out to be rubbish. Too much flipping glass and not enough actual walls or ceiling, I mean, really, they might as well have done away with it all and just made a ruddy greenhouse. People shouldn't be living like plants, Roy!”

“The _point_ is, you did kiss that girl,” Roy says, crossing his arms, and then uncrossing them immediately so he can get access to his handful of popcorn. “I don’t see you going round kissing other boys like that!”

“Roy, I’m sorry if this upsets you, but I will have you know that you are not the first boy I’ve kissed,” Moss replies, as Roy subsequently chokes on a second piece of popcorn. “And anyway, about that time with the bomb robot, everyone knows that’s just what you do in high stakes situations! Punch out a man, kiss the pretty girl, you know, ‘wait for me!’ and all that.”

“That is definitely _not_ a thing that everybody does,” Roy argues, still hoarse from the double assault to his trachea. “What you just described is some throwaway gag on a half-hour sitcom with a laugh track on Channel 4.”

“Really?” Moss asks. He mulls this over for a bit. “Ooh, you know, I bet that’s what Dr. Mendall was all on my case about.”

“What?”

“Oh, she was going on all this nonsense about ‘performative heterosexuality’, and here I was thinking, ‘I can’t be a performing heterosexual, I’ve never even been to the theatre!’ But as it turns out I did go to the theatre, and it was a very gay experience in all respects, and that was just the musical itself, before even I got to that moment at the bar—”

Roy frowns. “Wait, what happened…”

“—but it makes perfect sense now, because when we had Aunt Irma visiting I was the classic romantic male lead, caught in a love triangle between the intelligent, experienced older woman and the blonde bombshell—”

“Dr. Mendall wasn’t… _who was the blonde?_ ”

“—and obviously as Word I was the quintessential Casanova, a tortured genius with a dark past, essentially the James Bond of Countdown, and at the bomb disposal I was playing the action film hero who saves the world and gets the girl... see, I’m always playing a character, Roy, because it’s far easier to understand the world through the cipher of popular media than it is to strike out on your own.”

“Look, I’m going to be honest, I didn’t understand any of that,” Roy says. “But I do now I have a lot of questions about mystery blondes and our trip to the theatre with Jen’s gay boyfriend.”

“Well, there’s no time for that now, Roy, we are having a breakthrough here,” Moss replies.

“Alright,” Ross says. “So, let me get this straight, or, I guess, not-straight – you were copying a bunch of dumb movie tropes which all seem to _coincidentally_ involve you getting with girls?” He scoffs. “Come on, that can’t be right, there’s a ton of… well, there’s got to be… huh. I never considered how few movies have blokes going after blokes.”

“Precisely,” Moss agrees. “Representation is important.”

“What about with me, then?” Roy asks. “That of which we Do Not Speak, I mean. What movie was that from?”

“I probably got the idea from one of those spy films,” Moss admits. “But I actually think that was the first time I was just doing what felt right.”

“Ahh,” Roy says, his cheeks going a little red.

“Not to worry, Roy,” Moss says cheerfully, patting him on the arm. “We don’t have to tackle your burgeoning sexuality crisis tonight. Rome wasn’t built in a day, you know.”

“Yeah, sure,” Roy says, still a bit high pitched. He clears his throat, and continues, in a deeper voice, “Well, thanks for letting me know, and all that.”

“You’re very welcome,” Moss replies.

“And uh, I’ll see if Helen has any male friends who might be gay men, if that’s something you might be interested in.”

“That would be lovely, thank you, Roy.” He picks up the remote and unpauses the movie. “I bet they all have very pretty nails.”

In the reflection of the Dagobah swamp, Roy slips his manicured hands out from under the popcorn bowl.

They really are a lovely shade of blue.

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to whomever edited Moss' page on the IT Crowd wiki to compile all his 'heterosexual' moments into one section so I could subvert them without too much effort! This one's for you, buddy. 
> 
> A little Fun Fact for you all: _Cijfers en Letters_ aired in the 70-80s in the Netherlands, though a single episode remake was done in 2013.


End file.
